


Hunt You Down

by orangeink



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternative Universe - FBI, Canon-typical language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-08 23:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeink/pseuds/orangeink
Summary: FBI Special Agent Brad "Iceman" Colbert is very good at his job. Catching bad guys with his partner Ray Person is what he does, and over the years he's become notorious for his ability to hunt down the most brutal killers. But even the Iceman has skeletons in his closet.The worst skeleton--the only one that keeps Brad up at night--is Nate Fick, a serial killer Brad apprehended years ago. Fick's case was always messy, not least because he and Brad were in a relationship at the time he was arrested. When circumstances force them to work together, Brad becomes suspicious that Fick is hiding something, and events slowly start to spiral out of his control.





	1. Unsanctioned Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No offense is meant to the veterans depicted in the TV show Generation Kill. This is solely based off their actor portrayals.
> 
> Warning for language and descriptions of violence.
> 
> Fun Fact: This is saved in my documents as Generation Serial Killer, and it took a lot of self-discipline to come up with a different title.
> 
> There are five parts to this story, all written and ready to upload. I plan to update every week. I hope you enjoy!

**THREE YEARS AGO**

Brad resisted the urge to growl. He distracted himself by knocking back the rest of his beer, then frowned when he realized the bottle was empty. Again.

Pictures of blood spatter and a long-cooled corpse were scattered across the sticky surface of the table, partially obscured by sheets of yellow notebook paper scribbled over with copious notes and theories. Brad shifted and the worn cushion of the booth in the rundown bar creaked beneath him. The air stank of sweat and the twang of country music made Brad want to claw his ears off. He’d thought some white noise would do him some good, help his subconscious mull over the case and light on something new, but no fucking dice. He’d been here for three hours and all he’d accomplished was running up a mediocre tab and the beginnings of a nasty headache trying to force his brain to figure out a way to catch the bad guy.

But how to catch a man who left no trace behind and might as well have been a ghost?

Brad was tired of chasing this particular ghost across state lines, especially since this ghost was undoubtedly corporeal and left a trail of bodies in his wake. Brad had been working this case for eight months, ever since the first ex-military man had been found beaten and garroted in his house, tongue ripped out and drooling congealing blood down his dress blues. Brad had known the moment he saw the crime scene that the FBI had a real problem on their hands—whoever murdered the poor bastard knew what he was doing and didn’t leave a scrap of evidence behind except a Latin word carved into the victim’s forehead. _Memento_. Remember in the imperative form. Remember what? Brad had no fucking clue, and it was starting to piss him off.

With a sigh, his Iceman façade cracking from sheer weariness, Brad began to gather up his case notes. He stuffed them into various folders and shoved them into his briefcase before leaning back against the booth and staring up at the ceiling.

Ever since that first murder, there had been four more cases with similar MOs. The brutality and zero sign of forced entry led Brad to think the murders were personal and that the victims likely knew their killer, that they trusted him enough to invite him into their homes. After they made that fucking final fatal mistake, they were tortured for several hours. All five victims died painfully. The Medical Examiner had informed Brad that the only physical clue linking them together— the word _Memento_ carved into their foreheads—was likely inflicted while they were still alive. Whoever the fuck was behind this, they had one hell of a vendetta.

The only thing that connected the victims was their past involvement in the U.S. military. All of the victims had served as Marines. This combined with the fact their assailant was strong enough to overcome them led Brad to suspect—

“You look like you’re having a rough day.” The voice was male, tinged with concern. Brad blinked and turned his head—a man with an open, earnest face and bright green eyes was standing a few inches away, watching Brad. Brad was just drunk enough that he couldn’t keep his eyes from raking up and down the stranger, taking in the casual dress doing little to hide a toned body, the relaxed posture and confident stance. The stranger waited patiently for Brad to finish his embarrassingly obvious assessment and raised an eyebrow.

Eventually, Brad got his tongue unfucked and replied, “The usual, I’m afraid.”

The stranger winced in sympathy, “Sorry to hear that. May I?” He gestured to the empty space across from Brad. Brad shrugged. The stranger smiled and slid into the booth, movements lithe and assured in a way that made heat hum through Brad’s body. Or maybe that was because it was one hundred fucking degrees in this fucking bar and he was still dressed in a suit.

The two men considered each other. Then the stranger stuck out his hand, “I’m Nate.”

“Brad,” he replied, pleased to discover Nate had a firm handshake.

Nate’s distractingly full lips stretched into a smile, “I’m a grad student at Stanford.”

“Impressive,” Brad said, quietly reevaluating Nate’s age from jailbait to mid-twenties.

“Let me guess.” It was Nate’s turn to look him up and down, his tone teasing, “Accountant?”

“Hardly,” Brad said. “Law enforcement.” He left it vague on purpose. While he could pull out his badge, he didn’t want Nate to decide to stick around only for the power trip of talking to a badass (if Brad did say so himself) FBI agent.

“Working long hours, aren’t you?” Nate said. He made a show of glancing at his watch, “It’s almost midnight.”

“Don’t you have class tomorrow?” Brad snarked back and was rewarded by Nate’s quiet chuckle. “Not until the afternoon. The night’s still young, and I’ve finished my homework like a good little boy.”

Brad let some heat thaw his smile. He leaned forward and met Nate’s eyes, “Glad to hear it. Can’t let that Ivy League liberal dick-suck education down. And you’re right, the night is young.”

“Anything could happen,” Nate said, and smiled with a full set of gleaming, perfect teeth.

**NOW**

“Brad, my man, you know I love you and trust you much farther than I can throw you but I have to ask: what the fuck are we doing here?”

“Currently, Ray, we appear to be testing how long I can tolerate your inbred hick mouth yapping incessantly before I smother you.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You love me too much. Who would you talk to about your life and _batshit crazy_ ideas if not your favorite old pal Ray-Ray?”

“Ray—”

“Oh, wait, I know—you’d go talk to your new bestest buddy. Well, newsflash, Bradley: dear Nathaniel is currently incarcerated. And I’m sure my death at your hands would severely limit your conjugal visits. Hey, yet another reason not to kill me!”

“Ray,” Brad growled, “I swear to—”

“Special Agent Colbert? Special Agent Person?”

Brad looked up from Ray’s insufferably smug expression to find a uniformed prison guard poking his head through the door. “Yes?”

“Fick has agreed to see you. This way.”

“Here we go again,” Ray said, pushing himself to his feet with a theatrical sigh. Brad glared and stood as well. He bridged the distance to the door with long strides, smirking when he heard Ray curse and scramble to keep up.

The two FBI agents followed the guard through the linoleum-tiled halls past three guard stations, taking several lefts and a right before descending a staircase to the inner sanctum of the prison.

The guard left them in a dimly lit room. Two plastic chairs sat on one side of a metal table; a stainless-steel chair with rings for chains to be affixed to sat on the other side.

Ray threw himself down into one of the two plastic chairs and started humming. Brad placed the manila folder he had been carrying onto the tabletop but remained standing, scanning the room. The walls were cinderblock painted white; the only exit was the door through which they had entered. There were no windows, and the room smelled of bland recycled air.

“You know,” Ray drawled, “there’s no need to gussy yourself up. I’m sure dear Nathaniel won’t be turned off if your tie is a little wrinkled.”

Brad glanced down, startled to discover he had in fact been unconsciously straightening his tie. Clenching his jaw, Brad crossed his arms. “Shut up, Ray.”

Instead of going back to his humming, Ray looked at him, dark eyes piercing. His face was unusually serious, and Brad knew immediately that whatever his partner wanted to say was not something he wanted to hear.

Ray could probably tell that Brad was trying to telepathically mute him, but he forged ahead nonetheless, “Ignoring the fact the boss would kill us if he knew we were here, are you sure this is such a good idea? This is the second time we’ve visited him this week alone. It used to be we would only see him every couple of months.”

“It’s necessary, Ray. This case is right up his alley.”

“And you know what, Brad? The fact that we know that worries me. If we’re not careful he could start charging us for consulting time.” The joke fell flat, but Brad heard the warning Ray left unsaid. _Don’t get too close. Especially not with him._

“I know,” Brad said. “This will be the last time.”

Ray’s mouth ticked down at the corner, “That’s what you said six days ago.”

On any other occasion, Brad would have taken offense to that. But it had been thirty-six hours since he last slept, having spent the past day and a half frantically trying to track down leads to apprehend a very meticulous, very careful, very _brutal_ killer. Brad stank of sweat and alcohol and greasy food from cheap restaurants; his eyes were gritty and all he wanted to do was collapse on a bed for at least twelve hours. But that had to wait, because first he had to catch the bastard who was on a cross-country murder spree. And Brad suspected the key to his capture lay in the hands of Nate Fick, highly-intelligent sociopath, ex-Marine, and convicted serial-murderer.

Normally, Brad wouldn’t dare to be anywhere near Na— _Fick’s_ green eyes and gorgeous, clever mouth when he wasn’t functioning at full capacity, but their unsub’s body count was nearly double-digits. Desperate times.

Brad was grateful that Ray was merciful enough to keep his mouth shut until a buzzer sounded and the door slid aside to admit Nate Fick. Brad’s breath caught just a little bit when Fick shuffled in. Dressed in a standard prison-issue orange jumpsuit with a white undershirt, Fick’s hands and feet were cuffed together and connected by a single chain. By all rights, the stilted movements he was limited to should have looked awkward. But Fick was a master of himself: he made it look as though the unnatural half-steps were something he had been doing his whole life, not grappling with the past fourteen months he had been confined to supermax. Brad tried very hard not to hit himself over the head when he realized he was watching the play of muscles under Fick’s thin white shirt.

“The man of the hour,” Ray crowed, throwing his arms wide.

“Gentlemen,” Fick nodded as he sat down, waiting patiently for the blond prison guard who had been escorting him to attach his bound hands and feet to the chair, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. Thank you, Walt,” he said to the guard, who flashed him a guileless smile and tucked the keys to Fick’s cuffs back in his pocket.

“Hey,” Ray perked up, a look of puppyish anticipation on his face, “Walt, are we still on for Saturday?”

A flush spread across Walt’s cheekbones. He nodded. Brad kicked Ray. “Not now.”

“Right, right,” Ray said. He winked at poor hapless Walt as the young man took up his post in the corner of the room; Walt, to his credit and despite the blush on his face, stared evenly back. Ray blew him a kiss before turning back to Fick, who had been watching the interaction with a small smile. Leaning forward across the table, Ray cocked his head, “How’ve you been, homes? They treating you alright in here?”

“Well enough,” Fick shrugged. His bright green eyes slid over the two agents, narrowing slightly as he assessed them, “I’m going to hazard a guess and say the same can’t be said for the two of you.”

“Sadly, no,” Ray nodded, pouting. “This case has been running us ragged. We were hoping you might be able to help us out.”

“What makes you think I can help?” Fick asked Ray, but he was watching Brad. Brad took a moment to steel himself against Fick’s too-discerning gaze, pulling on the Iceman mask as he flipped open the folder and slid several photographs across the table. Fick held his gaze for a moment longer before he leaned forward to examine the photographs. He let out a low whistle, “Wide-range brain splatter, huh? Impressive, but I still don’t understand why you’ve come to me with this.”

“This guy’s MO is different than our usual perps,” Brad spoke for the first time. Fick glanced up at him, and Brad continued, “He takes out his targets with single shots to the head from upwards of two hundred meters away. Not really your style.” Fick nodded.

“Kill shots are too easy,” Fick said. “Too painless. From the looks of these pictures, your sniper knows his shit. It’s likely his targets didn’t feel a thing. They probably didn’t even hear the gunshot before they dropped dead.”

A tense silence stretched out as Brad and Fick considered each other. Ray huffed and said, “We have evidence that he performs reconnaissance on his victims before he strikes, stalking them to get an idea of their routines for precisely a week before sniping them in broad daylight, in the middle of the most public place the victim visits. He’s a ballsy mofo, that’s for sure.”

“Perhaps,” Fick said, leaning back in his chair. The chains that bound him jingled, a constant reminder that he had no power in this room. Yet Brad couldn’t shake the feeling that despite the physical restraints Fick was the one in charge here, speaking to the FBI agents on his own terms instead of the other way around. “But the fact that he apparently makes no contact with his victims beforehand suggests these killings aren’t personal. Has his MO changed since he came on your radar?”

Brad and Ray glanced at each other. “No,” Brad said. “He has a very set pattern: get to town, make a nest somewhere, observe, and then kill in a place where he’s guaranteed the highest shock factor.”

“Are his victims connected in any way?”

Ray ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, “Not that we’ve been able to tell. And because we can’t figure that out, we have no fucking clue where he’s going to strike next.”

“The fact that his victims have no apparent connection may be the answer,” Fick said.

“What do you mean?” Brad crossed his arms again, unconsciously drawing himself up to his full height. Fick remained unruffled, merely cocked a reddish-blond eyebrow, “The fact that his MO doesn’t deviate or escalate in any way implies a great deal of self-control. That or a lack of caring. As I said, his methods are impersonal, which leads me to believe he has no connection to his victims.”

“Random killings?” Ray’s dark brows furrowed.

“Not quite,” Fick said.

Something cold was worming its way into Brad’s stomach. “You’re suggesting there’s some kind of list. You’re saying this guy’s a contract killer.”

“Exactly,” Fick gave him a small smile. It made Brad’s gut twist, the sensation uncomfortably like indigestion.

Brad ran a hand down his face, using the motion as an anchor to square himself away, “How do we find this guy? We have no idea who’s next on his list.”

Fick bit his lip in a way that made something hot curl through Brad (so much for squaring himself away), leaning forward again to look through the crime scene photos, “Judging by the accuracy of these headshots, I’d say your perp is ex-military. I’d start there, looking for any particularly unsavory contractors who might have a use for some guy fresh off deployment who can’t leave the war behind. There’s got to be a money trail. Follow that and you’ll probably find your guy. I recommend you work fast, though. In my experience there’s usually about twenty names on a list like this, people who might dig too deep until they find themselves in a dark hole and in someone’s crosshairs.”

“In your experience?” Brad repeated, voice flat. Fick met his gaze without blinking. Ray glanced between them before standing up and sliding his chair across the floor. The screech grated in Brad’s ears. He couldn’t quite hide a wince as pain flared in his temples. Fick’s green eyes missed nothing. Softly, Fick said, “Are you all right, Special Agent Colbert?”

Brad kept his mouth shut. Ray heaved a put-upon sigh and gathered up the pictures. Slipping them back into the manila folder, the dark-haired man glanced at Brad, “You have five minutes and then I’m hauling your ass outta here. We have a psycho sniper to catch, after all.”

Ray didn’t give Brad a chance to argue, loping over to the door and pulling Walt out into the hallway, talking over Walt as the he sputtered about breaches of protocol; Ray babbling something about needing to get some date night details squared away.

Brad knew he shouldn’t take advantage of this. The right thing, the lawful and morally upstanding thing to do was leave immediately, drag his partner away from Walt and get back in the car and start tracking down the leads that Fick had given them. But Fick didn’t move and neither did Brad, the table serving as some kind of wall between them.

Fick broke the silence first. “How are you, Brad? Last time you were here we didn’t get to talk much.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Brad snapped, but even to his own ears it lacked malice. He just sounded tired.

Fick’s damnably green eyes were shining with earnestness, “I’m sorry this case has been hard on you. Something tells me it won’t take you long to close it. Then you’ll be able to rest.”

“Something tells you, huh? And what might that be? Your womanly intuition?”

Fick didn’t deign to respond to the slight, “I have faith in your abilities, Brad. I know you’ll solve this and catch the bad guy.”

“You have faith in me?” Brad sneered. “Spare me, I don’t want to hear it.”

“That’s not what you said in California.”

Brad went still. Fick met his gaze, green eyes sad but firm; challenging. Brad’s hands curled into fists as images flashed through his mind: Fick smiling brightly with an edge of daring, standing side by side with Brad, warm sand beneath their feet and an entire ocean before them, Fick laughing and leaning closer, murmuring in Brad’s ear—

“Shut up,” Brad said. “You don’t get to say that, Fick.”

“Nate.”

“What?”

“My name is Nate,” Fick said. He had the audacity to look at Brad with something that teetered dangerously close to disappointment. “Or did you forget?”

“How could I forget?” the words came out a little too bitter, and Brad cursed himself as Fick’s eyes darkened. Brad summoned the hint of a sneer to his face, “It’s kind of hard to forget someone who lied through their teeth every time you saw them.”

Fick leaned forward, “I never lied to you.”

“Omissions of truth are still lies,” Brad retorted.

Fick snorted, a hint of color in his cheeks as his eyes narrowed, “By that logic you lied to me as well, Brad. You told me you were a police officer.”

“I’m an FBI agent,” Brad said. “Close enough. Besides, I was undercover. And you told me you were just a grad student.”

“I was.”

“You neglected to mention the fact that you also went moonlighting as some kind of fucked-up serial killer.”

“If that’s how you choose to see it,” Fick shrugged. His sudden blasé attitude pissed Brad right the fuck off. He put his hands on the table and leaned across, glaring at Fick, “What else is there? You never explained why you went after those ex-military dumbfucks.”

Fick smiled without humor. He didn’t reply, simply held Brad’s gaze. Brad’s wrists were starting to ache from the strain of supporting his weight when Ray pounded on the door and stuck his head in to say in a sing-song voice: “Time’s up!”

Against all odds, Brad’s headache had subsided while he was arguing with Fick. The sound of Ray’s voice brought it back full force. He pushed himself off the table and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He hauled a deep breath in through his nose and hissed it out through his teeth, taking one last moment of respite behind the darkness of his own eyelids before heading back out to hunt down a sniper while running on fumes. Settling behind the mask of the Iceman, Brad squared his shoulders and headed toward the door.

“Brad.” Fick’s voice stopped him. Brad glanced back, saw Fick twisted around in an effort to face him. “Take care of yourself.”

He said it softly, sincerely. Brad waited to feel a spark of familiar rage, but it was lost in the void of exhaustion that was threatening to make his ears ring and his head spin. Brad turned his back on Fick and walked out the door.

“Let’s go, Ray,” Brad said. The soft rattle of chains echoed through the doorway as Walt released Fick from the chair. Ray chewed his lip in a way that was not nearly as distracting as when Fick did the same thing. Mercifully, he didn’t speak, merely fell into step beside Brad as they ascended the staircase and headed back to their piece of shit rental car.

“It’s on, homes,” Ray crowed when he plopped into the driver’s seat. “We got ourselves a sniper to catch.”

Brad nodded, “Let’s get to it, Person. Shut up and drive.”

He could see Ray smile out of the corner of his eye. Brad stared up at the prison until Ray spun the car around. In minutes, they were through the security gate and back on the open road.


	2. Snipers and Scuttlebutt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why the fuck does he look like a model?” Ray had squawked indignantly when they saw the guy’s mug shot from his days in the Marine Corp.
> 
> “That’s your main concern?” Brad’s voice dripped disdain. “Scuttlebutt says he was one hell of a sniper. Oh, and he’s also killed nine people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 is here. Enjoy!

**TWO YEARS AGO**

Half-asleep, Brad reached out and made a disgruntled sound when he discovered the sheets were cold. The soft rustle of someone pulling on clothing somewhere in the room disturbed the morning quiet. There was a time when hearing the movements of another person so early in the day would have made Brad startle, but he had been listening to these particular movements for several months. And if anything, they brought him comfort: a sign there was at least one thing in his life he wasn’t fucking up or failing epically. Rubbing at his eyes, Brad rolled onto his back and watched as pale skin disappeared under a sleek button-up shirt. “Where are you off to so damn early?”

“Early?” Nate raised an eyebrow. “It’s almost seven. I have class. And didn’t you say you have a meeting to get to?”

Brad huffed. “Don’t remind me.”

“Fine,” Nate smiled at him, soft in a way that made something flutter in Brad’s stomach. He walked over and leaned down. Brad could smell mint toothpaste on his breath. “Go back to sleep.”

“Only if you join me,” Brad said, eyes heavy-lidded. Nate snorted and shook his head, “You’re a terrible influence. I need to pass this class in order to graduate in a couple months, you know.”

“You’ll be fine,” Brad said, knew it with certainty. Nate looked pleased, and the flush on his face made it impossible for Brad not to reach up and pull him down for a kiss. Nate sighed and leaned into him before pulling away.

“Later,” Nate promised. Brad grinned. Nate rolled his eyes good-naturedly and closed the bedroom door behind him. Brad listened to his footsteps fade away and let his smile vanish as well. Slowly, he slid his legs out from under the covers and planted his feet on the floor. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Brad considered the faint scarring on his knuckles. The traces of old wounds were thin white lines; an almost invisible patchwork that told the story of Brad’s childhood—in and out of fights until he ended up in military school.

The scars reminded him of the Marine serial-murder case. The more he considered the files and the facts, the longer he stared at the crime scene photos, the more he felt the killer knew the FBI was onto them, that they were taunting Brad by leaving behind clues but keeping the answer just out of reach, hidden by a veil Brad couldn’t quite pierce.

This was the longest Brad had ever worked a case without cracking it, and although he was the Iceman, he could feel the pressure beginning to wear on him. Everyone from Quantico to the Pentagon was breathing down his neck about this, urging him to find the perp behind the high-profile exclusively-military slayings before the fucker struck again.

Taking a deep breath, Brad reveled in the mingled scent of him and Nate before he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the shower to get ready for work. When he stepped out of the steam ten minutes later and wrapped a towel around his waist, he saw he had missed a call from Ray.

He didn’t have to listen to Ray’s expletive-riddled message to know what the sinking feeling in his gut was telling him: After five months of no activity, the killer had returned.

**NOW**

It didn’t take them long to apprehend the sniper. In fact, Brad was almost offended at how fucking easy it turned out to be. A couple phone calls to the right people after they left the prison got them a list of three names. Brad and Ray tracked the owners of those names down one by one, striking out twice before hitting the jackpot.

“Why the fuck does he look like a model?” Ray had squawked indignantly when they saw the guy’s mug shot from his days in the Marine Corp.

“That’s your main concern?” Brad’s voice dripped disdain. “Scuttlebutt says he was one hell of a sniper. Oh, and he’s also killed nine people.”

“I know,” Ray snapped. He huffed as he clicked the safety off his service weapon. “It’s just not fair, is all I’m saying.”

“He did better in the genetic lottery, Person,” Brad said sagely. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Fuck you, Brad,” Ray retorted. Then they were silent, creeping down the hallway to door 233 in a crappy Motel 6.

When they kicked down the door to the dingy room, Brad led with Ray on his heels. An entire SWAT team flooded in behind them, weapons fixed on the man kneeling on the floor with his hands behind his head, a serene expression on his face.

“Rodolfo Reyes?” Brad’s aim was steady.

“Rudy, please, brother,” the man said. Brad could see Ray’s face twitch in his peripheral vision, his expression incredulous.

“Rudy,” Brad said pleasantly, “you’re under arrest for the murders of nine people. Ray, cuff him and read him his rights.”

Ray nodded and gestured to a couple of the SWAT team to help him haul the man to his feet, since he was about three times Ray’s size.

Reyes allowed the SWAT team to drag him up as Ray gave him the Miranda lecture. Brad took his time examining the room. There was a disassembled sniper rifle laid out neatly across the bed, a high-end military model with a powerful scope, if Brad had any guess. He recalled seeing earlier prototypes back in his military school days.

To the left of the bed was a rickety wooden table. A single piece of paper lay atop it. Eyes narrowing, Brad crossed the room and examined the paper, scanning the script with a growing sense of trepidation.

“Take me away, brother,” Reyes was saying to Ray. “My mission is complete.”

“Funny you should say that,” Brad said, the paper rustling in his hand, “because according to this list of names you still have eleven to go.”

Reyes looked at Brad, dark eyes solemn. “The world works in mysterious ways, my brother. My mission is complete. I am assured of this.”

Reyes’ words rang a bell in the back of Brad’s mind. He could have sworn he had heard that before, but he put that aside for a moment to focus on the more immediate issue. Why was Reyes so relaxed, insisting that he had achieved his objective when evidence indicated otherwise? And why had he been kneeling when they broke down his door?

It was almost as if he had been expecting them. The thought was unsettling to Brad. Ray was escorting Reyes to the door when the sniper paused, glancing at the gun on the bed. Brad tensed, his hand hovering over his service weapon.

“I was a little off on the last target,” Reyes said mournfully. “My shots haven’t been as steady without my partner.”

The FBI agents glanced at each other in alarm, Ray’s eyes telegraphing _Fuck, please, not again._

“You have a partner?” Brad asked sharply. None of their surveillance had hinted that Reyes’ sniper routine was anything but a solo act. If they were wrong and there was still a psychopath running around out there—

Reyes looked at him, sadness cracking his mask of serenity, “I used to. He never made it out of the sandbox.”

Brad didn’t know how to respond to that. He glanced at the SWAT leader, who took the hint and started shoving Reyes out the door.

Ray came to stand beside Brad, staring down at the list lying next to the gun on the bed.

“Well,” Ray said. “That was fucking weird.”

“No shit,” Brad muttered. “He didn’t put up a fight at all.”

Ray chewed on his lip, “Maybe he knew his days of shooting fellow humans were over. He seemed pretty smart to me—maybe he knew this was a fight he couldn’t win.”

“I just have this feeling,” Brad said.

“The feeling that this whole arresting the psycho sniper that’s managed to elude us for months in under five minutes without a single shot being fired was too fucking easy?” Ray raised his eyebrows, sardonic. “Me too, homes. Me too.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth, Ray,” Brad gave his partner a tight smile. “Let’s get back to the office. We’ve got paperwork to do.”

“Fuck,” Ray said. “Don’t remind me.”

Later that night, when Brad finally collapsed into bed, Reyes’ words echoed in his mind. Except this time, they were spoken by a different, painfully familiar voice:

_I am assured of this._

The words and the scent of the sea followed Brad into sleep. He forgot about them by the time he woke up the next morning.


	3. Conflict of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Brad,” he said, green eyes calm. “What is this?”
> 
> And just like that, the buzzing in Brad’s ears was gone. He forced the words out of his mouth: “Nathaniel Fick, you are under arrest for the premeditated murders of five individuals. Put the knife down and surrender peacefully.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/11/2018
> 
> The 100th anniversary of the end of WWI.
> 
> Lest we forget.

**TWO YEARS AGO**

“Are you sure you’re cool with this?” For once, Ray’s voice was soft. Or maybe that was the faint buzzing in Brad’s ears. Either way, Brad hated it.

“Yes,” Brad said.

“Are you _sure?_ ” Ray prodded. “Legally I don’t think you should be doing this. Conflict of interest and all.”

“Ray,” Brad said. “I need to do this.”

His partner considered him, mouth pinched. His eyes were sympathetic, and Brad forced himself to hold his gaze. Ray’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “Alright. Go get ‘em, tiger. I’ve got your back.”

Brad nodded, one hand on his weapon as he reached out and turned the key in the lock of his own apartment. The tumblers clicked in the quiet, and to Brad they sounded louder than gunshots. Or maybe that was his heartbeat.

Gritting his teeth, Brad remined himself why he was doing this. Images of five decorated war heroes tortured to death in their own homes flashed through his mind. He was desensitized to them by now, but it was enough of an excuse for him to haul on the Iceman mask and open the door.

“Hey,” Nate’s warm voice called out as Brad and Ray slipped across the threshold. “You’re home late.”

Ray had his gun out and tucked against his side. Brad drew his own weapon and did his best to keep his voice steady, “I had a hell of a day at the office.”

“That so?” Nate asked, laughter in his voice. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

Brad’s chest compressed in an agonizing way. He made his feet move forward, one in front of the other until he rounded the corner to the kitchen, Ray behind him and Nate in front of him, chopping something on the counter with his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, his back to them.

The scent of savory stew bubbled up from a pot on the stove. Brad’s pulse pounded. The buzzing in his ears intensified.

“Was your day really that bad?” Nate asked. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

He turned around. The buzzing in Brad’s ears grew louder as Nate paused and ran his eyes over them, taking in their ready stances and the weapons they held close to their sides.

“Brad,” he said, green eyes calm. “What is this?”

And just like that, the buzzing in Brad’s ears was gone. He forced the words out of his mouth: “Nathaniel Fick, you are under arrest for the premeditated murders of five individuals. Put the knife down and surrender peacefully.”

His voice sounded like it was coming from someone else, someone whose life wasn’t falling apart around them. Nate gazed at him, face blank. After several long moments, he put the knife on the cutting board and lifted his hands.

Ray raised his gun and flanked him slowly. Nate cocked an eyebrow and stepped away from the counter. “Come on, Ray. You’re just doing your job. I’m not going to stab you.”

Ray’s lips twisted into a rictus of a smile. He holstered his gun and cuffed Nate’s hands behind his back.

Brad’s throat felt swollen shut. His fingers tingled. Mechanically, he holstered his gun. Nate watched him. “I’m sorry, Brad,” he said. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

That right there was as good as a confession. The last bit of insane hope that maybe they had gotten it wrong, that maybe Nate was innocent after all died in his chest. Brad felt his infamous mask of composure begin to crumble away.

Ray escorted Nate to the door and into the custody of the cops waiting outside. Red and blue lights flashed and then Nate was gone. Brad stood in his kitchen with his hands limp at his sides. The pot on the stove screamed. The half-sliced tomatoes on the cutting board oozed crimson. Ray reappeared at his side and stood with him as their fellow agents began to search the apartment for evidence.

“Brad.”

“I lived with him for a year, Ray,” Brad said, eyes fixed on a woodland photograph that Nate had brought along when he moved in. “And it turns out I didn’t fucking know him at all.”

Ray didn’t reply, but he also didn’t let Brad drown himself in whiskey as soon as the FBI cleared out of his apartment. That was what friends were for, Brad supposed. If nothing else, at least he had Ray.

It was a shitty consolation.

**NOW**

The wheels of the justice system turned slowly but surely in the Reyes case. Granted, the wheels of justice may have been greased by the public baying for the ex-Marine’s blood, demanding justice for the ‘innocent’ people he killed. (Funny thing was, the deeper Brad dug, the more he realized the people Reyes killed weren’t as innocent as they appeared on the surface. Reyes had taken down racketeers, double agents, and drug traffickers, to name a few. Had things been different, had Reyes been subtler in conducting his killing spree, Brad might have been tempted to appreciate his work removing scum from the earth. But things weren’t different. Brad compartmentalized the inconsistences and moved on with his life.)

After eight months of the merry-go-round of trial after trial, Reyes was sentenced to life in prison. Brad considered the case closed. He was even managing to mostly avoid thinking about Fick until Ray hung up the phone one day and leaned across their adjoined desks.

“What is it, Ray?” Brad didn’t look up from the mess of papers spread out before him.

Ray didn’t respond. Irritated, Brad finally lifted his head to glare at his partner. His opened his mouth to berate him, but he paused at the look on Ray’s face.

“What?” Brad demanded.

Ray pursed his lips, “Walt called.”

Alarm flared through Brad’s veins. Ray hastened to continue: “Whoa, calm down, homes. He just called to say Fick had a visitor yesterday.”

Brad exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “What, another dumbfuck reporter trying to get the next big scoop out of him? Trying to find out the _real_ story behind his psychopathic predilection for tying men up and killing them slowly?”

“No,” Ray said quietly. “His visitor was a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” The adrenaline rush came surging back. “Who?”

“Mike Wynn,” Ray said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Neither have I,” Brad reached for his phone. “But that’s gonna change real soon.”

“Brad,” the solemnity in Ray’s voice made Brad pause. “Walt says this lawyer dude was trying to talk Fick out of doing something. Walt didn’t know what it was, but—”

“Don’t worry,” Brad started dialing, “I’m gonna find out.”

Five hours later he was sitting in the neat waiting room of Wynn & Patterson, a small but profitable law firm that dealt mostly with military cases.

“Special Agent Colbert?” the young secretary pushed his glasses up his nose. “This way, please.”

Brad was led into an office with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall and a collage of bright family portraits along another. The man sitting behind the stately mahogany desk was well-built and had graying blond hair. He stood up when Brad entered and came around the desk to shake his hand, “Mike Wynn, pleasure to meet you.”

Wynn spoke with a soothing Southern drawl. Brad shook his hand, “Special Agent Brad Colbert, FBI.”

“Please, sit,” Wynn gestured to a sofa. Brad sat. Wynn offered him a drink and when Brad declined he got right down to business: “I have to say I didn’t expect the FBI to drop by my office today.”

Brad decided to be just as blunt, “I’m here to ask you about a client of yours.”

“I’m happy to help if I can,” Wynn said.

“Nathaniel Fick,” Brad watched Wynn closely. Sure enough, the name made recognition flare in Wynn’s eyes. “I’ve been told you paid him a visit recently.”

Wynn surprised Brad by slumping a little bit, “I did. Yesterday.”

“I understand client confidentiality may make you hesitant to cooperate, but I need to know—”

“Oh,” Wynn said. “Nate’s not my client.”

Shock made Brad suffer a brief lapse of control. He damn near blurted, “He’s not? Then why did you go out of your way to visit him?”

Wynn sighed. “Nate is my friend. We served together.”

Brad blinked. Wynn continued, “I wanted to talk to him about appealing his case. He was convicted on mostly circumstantial evidence, and I know he has a good chance of getting the ruling overturned if he would just cooperate with me.”

Brad hoped none of the shock he was wrestling with showed on his face. “You’re trying to free Fick.”

“Yes,” Wynn looked Brad in the eye. “You can think what you want about me, but I know Nate. He doesn’t do anything by halves. Even if he was the one to commit those crimes, he wouldn’t let himself get caught.”

Wynn’s words were resonating uncomfortably with Brad, dredging up old worries that taking down Fick had been too easy, that the pieces had fallen into place too suddenly. Brad shook himself, made himself focus. “You think he was wrongfully convicted.”

“I do,” Wynn said. “And I went to see him yesterday to try and convince him to hire me pro-bono, so we could work on getting him out of that damn prison. But he refused.”

“I see,” Brad lied. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wynn.”

“Of course,” Wynn said, exhaustion heavy in the lines under his eyes. “I hope I was able to help.”

Brad excused himself and high-tailed it to his car. When he was safely tucked behind the wheel and tinted windows that were just this side of legal, Brad closed his eyes and let his mind whirl. He dismissed the perturbing revelation that Fick had passed up the chance at freedom and focused instead on Wynn’s comment that Fick didn’t half-ass things.

Brad knew that already. He’d seen the crime scenes, knew Fick made damn sure his victims suffered as much as possible and died squealing under his hands. But he couldn’t reconcile that with the expression on Wynn’s face when he talked about Fick being stuck in prison, like he was watching a house burn down with his whole family trapped inside.

_I’m missing something_ , Brad thought. It pissed him off. Worse, it made him nervous, because if ever there was someone Brad couldn’t predict, it was Fick.

“Damn it,” Brad growled. He made a mental note to clear his schedule tomorrow morning. He had to pay a visit to a certain serial killer.


	4. What We Want (Vindication)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fick raised an eyebrow, “You doubt your superb detective skills?”
> 
> “Don’t patronize me,” Brad said. “I know you killed those men. But it bothers me that we could never pin anything concrete on you. All we had was circumstantial evidence. Memento,” Brad snorted. “Remember. The fact that you were a Classics major and thus likely had knowledge of a dead language was one of the only things that kept our case against you afloat. But I always wondered, Fick . . . what exactly did you want them to remember?”
> 
> Fick had gone very still, patient in a way that made the hair rise on the back of Brad’s neck. “Do you really want to know?”
> 
> Brad held his gaze, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome one and all!
> 
> Kudos to anyone who spots the Mindhunter reference that started this fic!

**TWO YEARS AGO**

After Nate’s trial, Brad kicked Ray out of his apartment with a firm, “Fuck off, I’m not gonna break,” before he methodically started packing up Nate’s things. Seven hours and four cardboard boxes later, every piece of Nate that had snuck into Brad’s apartment had been quarantined and shoved into a closet.

Well, almost everything. Brad left the picture of the forest that Nate had been fond of staring at hanging on the wall. Brad didn’t know what Nate had seen when he looked at it, but it had never failed to bring a peaceful smile to his face.

Brad stared at it the rare times he was home for dinner. The apartment echoed around him, empty. But looking at the picture, Brad thought he could understand why Nate had been so fond of it. There was nothing but wilderness. Wilderness you could lose yourself in. Brad had a feeling that if he ever walked into that wilderness it would be all too easy to shed his responsibilities and never walk back out. In an abstract sort of way, Brad liked it.

**NOW**

“Special Agent Colbert?”

Brad looked up from the uncomfortable, too-small plastic chair and spotted the same guard who had greeted him months ago when the hunt for Reyes had been Brad’s main headache. As Brad stood and followed the man into the bowels of the prison, he felt a vaguely nauseating sense of déjà vu.

The only thing missing from this picture was Ray, but Brad had taken great care to keep Ray from finding out about his impromptu visit. The last thing Brad needed was his partner nagging in his ear. And Fick, for all that he smiled with his clean-cut Ivy League charm, tended to clam up on the important information when anyone but Brad was present. No, this was something Brad had to do alone. Ray could bitch him out for it later.

Fick was already chained to the chair when Brad arrived.

“Brad,” Fick said. He had the audacity to smile. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

Brad waited until the guard had gone before turning to Walt, “Uncuff him and take a smoke break or something. This is off the record.”

“Agent Colbert, I can’t—” Walt protested.

“Walt,” Fick said. “Listen to him.”

Walt pursed his lips, surveying Brad with narrow eyes. For an instant, Brad was startled by the level of ferocity in his gaze. But then Fick cleared his throat and Brad was back to looking at normal, doe-eyed Walt.

Brad frowned. Walt avoided eye contact as he gently released Fick from his bonds and shuffled out of the room. The door shut behind him with a clang.

Fick stayed in the chair.

“I’m done playing games, Fick,” Brad said.

Fick sighed, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific than that, Brad. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I told you, my name is Nate. As you well know.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Brad snapped. He stalked to the table and leaned across the surface until he could see the darker flecks in Fick’s green eyes. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to give me a straight answer for once in your damn life.”

“Sit down, Brad,” Fick said. “Let’s discuss this like adults.”

Brad’s lips curled into a sneer, and some of the benign humor faded from Fick’s eyes. “Either you sit down or I call Walt. And that would end this conversation much too soon for either of our liking.”

“Fine.” Keeping his eyes on Fick, Brad sat down. “I’ll be blunt. You’ve always bothered me. Your case never quite made sense.”

“It made enough sense that the jury convicted me,” Fick said. “Well done, Agent Colbert.”

“Stop that,” Brad said. “I meant that it always struck me as odd. To tell you the truth, Fick, we caught you too easily.”

Fick raised an eyebrow, “You doubt your superb detective skills?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Brad said. “I know you killed those men. But it bothers me that we could never pin anything concrete on you. All we had was circumstantial evidence. _Memento_ ,” Brad snorted. “ _Remember_. The fact that you were a Classics major and thus likely had knowledge of a dead language was one of the only things that kept our case against you afloat. But I always wondered, Fick . . . what exactly did you want them to remember?”

Fick had gone very still, patient in a way that made the hair rise on the back of Brad’s neck. “Do you really want to know?”

Brad held his gaze, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

“Hypothetically,” Fick said softly, “if I killed them, and carved _Memento_ into their skin, it was because I wanted them to remember their failures.”

A chill ran down Brad’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“Hypothetically,” Fick continued as though Brad hadn’t spoken. “I wanted to leave Schwetje for last, because he was the worst. But unforeseen circumstances forced me to shift my timeline, so I came for him fifth.”

“Schwetje . . .” Brad murmured to himself. “He was a Captain, honorably discharged.”

Fick smiled. Gone was the smooth Ivy League charm. In its place was something Brad had only glimpsed once before. The last time he had seen it was the day Fick was arrested, in the endless seconds between when he turned to find Brad pointing a gun at him and laid the knife down on the counter. Harsh light glittered in Fick’s green eyes, “Hypothetically, I thought he would have heard about what was happening on the grapevine and start figuring things out. I thought that he would have gotten suspicious when I showed up,” Fick’s mouth twisted into a grim slash. “But he was the same as ever, a dumb animal that invited me in with open arms.

“I’m still not sure he understood what I was doing when he died,” Fick said with mildly disturbing nonchalance. “His eyes were still stupid, still confused like they _always were_ ,” Fick paused, took a breath. Color had begun to flush high in his cheeks. “I went after McGraw next, which was a calculated risk because he was a paranoid bastard, always spouting off about his crazy theories over the comms and making the men nervous.

“I knew he would be suspicious, but I left him for later because I wanted the paranoia to eat away at him,” Fick looked at Brad, that harsh light crystalizing into something like satisfaction. “When I got to his apartment I almost expected a fight, because he was at least a little more intelligent than Schwetje. But he just opened the door and said, ‘Oh thank God, Nate, you’re here. Come in, come in, I think I’ve figured out who’s trying to kill us.’”

Fick smiled, thin-lipped, “He was wrong, and his theory was baseless. I showed him the error of his ways. Hypothetically, of course, Agent Colbert.”

Brad’s mind was busy processing the new information. He ignored the jibe and said, “We caught you after McGraw, but that was because you got sloppy, which Mike Wynn tells me is highly unlike you.”

He watched with satisfaction as sadness darkened Fick’s eyes.

“Ah,” Fick said. “Yes, Mike would say that. He’s a good friend, and an even better Gunnery Sergeant.”

“That’s another thing,” Brad said. “You seem to know fucking everyone. What’s up with that?”

Fick smiled tightly, “As you may have discovered during your investigation, Brad, the Recon Marine community is extremely small.”

“That doesn’t answer my question or explain why a guy like Mike Wynn would be so determined to stick his neck out for you.”

“I told Mike to drop my case,” Fick said. Brad relaxed—that part of Wynn’s story checked out at least—but he tensed again when Fick said, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Brad did not try to hide his incredulous expression, “You’d rather be stuck in here than have a chance to go free? I don’t buy that.”

“Sometimes people want things that don’t make sense, Brad.” The words were pointed in a way that made Brad’s teeth grind together.

“Then tell me what you want,” Brad challenged. “Tell me what you wanted out of this whole mess. Surely you had a reason, but you would never fucking say it in court. Why did you kill them?”

“They were incompetent,” Fick said, eyes cold enough to rival Brad’s Iceman mask. “They got good men killed for the sake of medals and promotions.”

“So, you killed them because they got others killed?” Brad found it alarmingly easy to appreciate Fick’s vigilante logic.

In one fluid motion, Fick pushed himself to his feet. Startled, Brad automatically started to mirror him.

“Don’t move,” Fick said, the bite of command in his voice. Brad narrowed his eyes but stayed in his seat. Fick moved around the table, his face blank. Brad suppressed a shiver when Fick stopped in front of him. The convicted serial killer stood close enough that Brad could feel the heat radiating from his body. Brad told himself the only reason he noticed was because the room was so damn cold.

The silence stretched on. Fick simply stood there, inches away, examining Brad with searing green eyes. Brad lifted his chin, defiant.

Fick’s hand flew up and wrapped around Brad’s throat. Brad choked in surprise. He jerked back, but the pressure of Fick’s hand did not change. After the initial shock, Brad realized Fick wasn’t trying to hurt him, and reluctantly stopped struggling. Every muscle in his body was rigid, poised for action.

Fick leaned down until his eyes were level with Brad’s, green boring into blue.

“I despise incompetence,” Fick said. His hand tightened for an instant, then just as quickly relaxed. Brad could feel his own pulse pounding as Fick loosened his grip until his fingers were simply a steady pressure on the sensitive skin of his neck. “But you’re the opposite of incompetent, Brad,” he smiled. “That’s why I like you.”

Fick’s grip shifted again, until it felt like he was caressing Brad instead of threatening to choke the life out of him. Fick leaned down until his lips brushed against Brad’s ear, “And because I like you, I’ll tell you a secret.”

Brad swallowed, his voice hoarse from Fick’s sure grip on his throat. “What is it?”

Brad swore he felt Fick’s lips stretch into a smile. “My list isn’t complete yet.”

The warmth of Fick’s hand vanished. His slid away with sinuous grace, calling for Walt.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Brad rasped. “Nate, what the fuck are you planning?”

“What makes you think I’m planning anything, Brad?” Fick cocked an eyebrow. There was no sign that he had been manhandling a federal agent mere seconds ago. Brad envied him his composure.

Walt practically broke down the door and hastened to escort Fick out. Before he allowed himself to be led away, Fick smiled and said, “Take care, Brad. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

“What—” Brad began, but Fick cut him off: “I am assured of this.”

Then he and Walt were gone, and Brad was left sprawled in the uncomfortable chair, unconsciously rubbing at the place where Fick’s hand had been, warm and heavy against his jugular.

He was an hour late to work the next day.

Ray cornered him as soon as he stepped out of the stairwell and hounded him to his desk.

“Have you heard?” Ray demanded.

“Heard what?” Brad growled.

“I called you like twenty fucking times,” Ray threw up his hands. “Did you lose your phone again?”

“That was one time. And you know damn well I only lost my phone because the perp we were after decided to take a sledgehammer to it,” Brad said. He fixed a thousand-yard stare on the far wall.  “My phone died last night. I forgot to charge it.”

Ray raised an eyebrow, “You, Mister Technophile, forgot to charge your phone. Are you okay, homes?”

“I’m fine,” Brad said through gritted teeth. “What the fuck do you want, Ray? It’s too early for your shit.”

“It is eight in the morning,” Ray said primly. Then the humor drained from his eyes, “Have you at least seen the news?”

“No,” Brad was not about to admit he had spent most of the previous night staring at the ceiling and cursing himself for losing control of Fick’s interrogation. It was bad enough that he could still feel the steady strength of Fick’s hand around his neck.

“There was a riot at the prison last night,” Ray said.

“What?” Brad’s head whipped up so fast his neck cracked.

Ray grimaced. “They’re still investigating what exactly went down, but there’s been at least one confirmed death. Some asshole called Griego.”

“Why should I care?”

Ray looked like he was trying to choke down a lemon, “He was stabbed to death. And according to video footage, our old buddy Nathaniel Fick was the one who killed him.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” Brad kept his tone unimpressed, but in his head, he was remembering Fick’s whispered words from yesterday.

_My list isn’t complete yet._

“I wouldn’t joke about this, homes,” Ray said.

“Surely Fick doesn’t think he can get away with it. Where are they keeping him?”

“That’s the other thing, homes,” Ray said. “Nathaniel and Reyes—our buddy the sniper who looks like a model—started the riot. Fick killed Griego, and then Fick and Reyes staged a breakout.”

“That’s a max security prison,” Brad said. “How the hell did they break out?”

“Walt helped them.” Ray’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Brad looked at his partner, the man he (reluctantly) considered his best friend, took in the poorly concealed hurt in his dark eyes, and felt the numbing shock morph into cold rage.

 _Fick has been playing us this whole time_ , Brad realized. _I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering he’s been playing me for years._

“It’s not your fault, Ray,” Brad said sharply. “We need to focus. We have three fugitives on the loose, all highly trained and dangerous. In order to hunt them down, we need to figure out where they’re going. Let’s start with figuring out how they’re connected.”

Having a concrete mission brought some manic energy back into Ray’s eyes, “Good idea, homes. I’ll go pull our files, run background on Hasser.”

“While you’re at it,” Brad said, “get me everything you can on Griego.”

“What?” Ray blinked. “Why?”

“There must be a reason Fick killed him,” Brad said. “I have a hunch.”

“If you say so, homes,” Ray said. “I’ll be back before you can say ‘My goodness gracious, Batman, we’ve been bamboozled.’”

“Nice to see you’re retreating to a fantasy world to deal with your trauma, Person,” Brad said wryly.

Ray winked, “Works like a charm, homes.”

“Ray,” Brad called. His partner stopped and looked back. “We’ll get them.”

Ray smiled, small but genuine, “Fuck yeah we will.”

He disappeared down the hall, and Brad turned to his computer. Fick’s mugshot took up a third of the screen, side-by-side with his military portrait. Brad ran his eyes over the sharp cheekbones, cheekbones he had known intimately once, cheekbones he had pressed kisses to—

“Enough,” Brad said to himself. “Get your fucking head out of your ass, Colbert. You’ve got work to do.”

An alert popped up in the corner of his screen: Ray had already emailed him the information on Griego. Brad minimized Fick’s file and switched over to Griego’s.

“Let’s see what you’re up to, Fick,” Brad said. “Run while you can. I’m not letting you get away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you all next week for the fifth and final chapter!


	5. What Happens in Niagara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his mental pep talk, Brad’s breath still caught when he laid eyes on Fick for the first time in three months.
> 
> His ex-lover was clean-shaven, his hair buzzed down, and he looked ever so slightly thinner under his prison uniform. But that thinness was only the veneer of the innocent civilian whittled away, Brad thought. Fick looked leaner in a way that suited him, in a way that made Brad’s instincts sit up and take notice of the predator lounging across the room, staring at Brad with bright green eyes.
> 
> Fick looked damnably good, Brad had to admit. He was completely unruffled, like being in max security prison was a walk in the park—and maybe it was. Brad had looked at his record; only one person had tried to attack Fick since his arrival, and he had put down the poor sap by brutally crushing his windpipe. Maybe he looked so at ease because the other inmates had heard what he’d done, what he was capable of, and were smart enough to stay the fuck away.
> 
> Brad wished he was smart enough to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we arrive at the conclusion. Enjoy!
> 
> (And happy belated Thanksgiving!)

**TWO YEARS AGO**

Fick had been in prison for three months when Brad first went to see him.

Now, listen, Brad hadn’t wanted to go see him. He would’ve been perfectly content to never see Fick’s pretty lying face again for as long as he lived, thank you very much. But the Bureau had a case they couldn’t crack. And someone higher up on the chain than Brad had the bright idea that in order to catch a criminal, you had to get another criminal’s opinion on a crime.

That was how Brad found himself sitting stiffly in the hellishly uncomfortable chairs in the prison waiting room. His stomach was roiling, had been all morning, and Brad put it down to the fish he had the previous night. You could never trust seafood, he told himself. The twisting in his gut had absolutely nothing to do with the fact he was about to see his ex, a man who had smiled guilelessly one minute and gone around carving people up with extreme prejudice the next. A man who had lied to Brad. A man Brad had loved (not that he would ever admit it aloud). A man who had betrayed him.

“So,” Ray’s voice grated on Brad’s ears. It was a welcome distraction. “This is gonna be awkward, huh?”

“It depends on your definition of awkward, Ray,” Brad said. “I think it’s going to be the type of awkward that happens when a criminal and the officer that arrested them have to meet in the prison where the aforementioned criminal has been sentenced to spend the rest of their life.”

“Yeah,” Ray drawled. “That’s not the kind of awkward I was thinking about, but points for deflection, homes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you whisky-tango—”

“Uh, excuse me? Agents Colbert and Person?”

Their eyes snapped toward the new voice, and Brad heard Ray squeak at the sight of the blond guard glancing between them questioningly.

“Holy shit, Brad,” Ray whispered. “Is that an angel?”

Brad supposed the baby-faced guard could have passed for an angel, if angels were raised on a diet of wholesome American-grown corn and Midwestern hospitality, had eyes bluer than the sky, and bright blond hair. He nevertheless ignored Ray’s breathless question and said, “That’s us.”

The baby-faced angel smiled, and Ray just about died of delight. “I’m Walt Hasser. Um, if you come with me, I’ll take you to see Na—inmate Fick, I mean.”

“Baby,” Ray crooned, “you can take me anywhere.”

Walt turned the color of a tomato, and Brad took pity on him. He smacked Ray upside the head. “Enough with the sexual harassment, Person. Try to act professional for once in your damn life.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ray said. He had eyes only for Hasser. The guard took that as his cue to lead them deeper into the prison. Ray trailed after him like a puppy. Brad let them pull ahead and focused on breathing, on getting himself squared away.

He had to get it through his head that Fick was just a criminal now. Worse, he was a convicted serial killer. Extremely intelligent, and manipulative as fuck. Brad couldn’t afford to let him see anything but the Iceman.

Despite his mental pep talk, Brad’s breath still caught when he laid eyes on Fick for the first time in three months.

His ex-lover was clean-shaven, his hair buzzed down, and he looked ever so slightly thinner under his prison uniform. But that thinness was only the veneer of the innocent civilian whittled away, Brad thought. Fick looked leaner in a way that suited him, in a way that made Brad’s instincts sit up and take notice of the predator lounging across the room, staring at Brad with bright green eyes.

Fick looked damnably good, Brad had to admit. He was completely unruffled, like being in max security prison was a walk in the park—and maybe it was. Brad had looked at his record; only one person had tried to attack Fick since his arrival, and he had put down the poor sap by brutally crushing his windpipe. Maybe he looked so at ease because the other inmates had heard what he’d done, what he was capable of, and were smart enough to stay the fuck away.

Brad wished he was smart enough to do the same.

**NOW**

“Ray, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“That depends, homes,” Ray replied. “Are you seeing information that would have been really helpful to know weeks ago and maybe could have prevented several high-profile convicted killers from escaping max security prison and becoming fugitives?”

“That does indeed align with what I am seeing, Person.”

Fick, Reyes, and Hasser’s files were spread out across their desks. They hailed from all different backgrounds, but they all had one glaring similarity, one thread that tied them all together.

“They were all Recon Marines?” Ray was incredulous.

“Even better,” Brad said, “they all served in the same fucking unit, along with our friend Mike Wynn. Not to mention all of Fick’s victims.”

“How did nobody notice this before?” Ray’s voice was just shy of a screech.

“Apparently,” Brad said, his tone dangerously pleasant, “several missions they ran were classified, so their records were sealed. And no one bothered to inform the FBI of this minor little detail years ago when Fick was arrested.”

“Fuck bureaucracy,” Ray said. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Just, fuck it. Fuck it hard, ‘cause it fucked us hard. Tell me, Brad, why are people so stupid?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that, Ray,” Brad said. “Sometimes the world just seems to try its best to impede high-profile murder investigations, and bureaucracy is its go-to bitch to get the job done.”

“Are you boys gonna bitch all day?” their boss asked. “Or are you gonna get over yourselves and start doing your jobs, which in this case is catching the three most wanted fugitives in the United States?”

“Sorry, sir,” Ray said. “We just had to vent a little. You know how it is.”

“I do,” their boss nodded. “Now enough with the pity party. Get to it.”

“Yessir,” Brad and Ray said in unison. They waited until their boss had left before turning back to the files.

“So, we know who he’s running _with_ ,” Ray said. “Question is, where’s he running _to?_ ”

Brad stared at the trail of red thumbtacks stabbed into the road map spread out on the desk. Fick and his crew had been sighted making their way progressively north. Brad knew Fick had family in Maryland, but while their trail was veering northeast, it was not enough to make Brad think Fick was running to family.

Fick wasn’t that stupid. He had been planning this for years. Brad knew he must have had a bolt-hole as a contingency plan. And it must have been someplace he knew Brad could guess, because Fick seemed to like their game of cat-and-mouse.

What was north of Maryland? Did Fick have family or friends that—

Brad froze.

“What’s up, homes?” Ray asked. “You have an epiphany?”

“That fucker,” Brad said softly.

“Which fucker?” Ray said. “We’re currently chasing three of them.”

“The mastermind,” Brad said.

“Ah,” Ray nodded sagely. “Fick.”

Brad stood up. “Get your coat, Ray. I know where they’re going.”

“You do?” Ray squawked, scrambling to keep up as Brad strode out the door. They took the stairs two at a time. Ray was panting by the time they reached Brad’s car. “Well don’t play coy, homes. Where the fuck are they going?”

“Canada,” Brad said. He threw the car in gear and stepped on the gas before Ray even had his seatbelt buckled.

“Canada?” Ray groaned. “Do you know how fucking big that place is? If they beat us to the border they could vanish without a fucking trace.”

“We’re going to beat them to the border,” Brad said, deftly turning into the parking lot in front of his apartment complex. “I need to grab something.”

“I’ll be here,” Ray said. “I’ll work on calling backup.”

“No.”

Ray looked up at Brad, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t call backup yet,” Brad said.

Ray’s lips thinned as he eyed Brad with a shrewd gaze. Then he signed and nodded. “Alright, homes. I understand. I’ll work on getting us tickets to . . . where, exactly?”

“Niagara. Thanks, Ray,” Brad said. He slammed the door to the car and raced up to his apartment. Shoving the key in the lock, he wrenched open the door and dashed inside. He went straight to the forest picture and gently took it down from its hook on the wall. Flipping it over, he examined it, squinting at something inside the frame.

Setting the picture frame down on the table, Brad pried it apart. A slip of yellowed paper fluttered down onto the table. Brad picked it up. A string of numbers was scrawled across it in familiar handwriting.

Brad smiled. He memorized the coordinates and rooted around in his kitchen drawers for a lighter. He watched as the orange flame ate away at the paper, singeing his fingertips before crumbling into ash.

Brad took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and recited the numbers in his head. Then he put the lighter away and headed to his car. Sliding behind the wheel, he started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

“We have a private jet,” Ray reported. “It’ll take off in twenty minutes. We’ll be in Niagara in two hours.”

Brad nodded. Ray glanced at him, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yeah,” Brad said. “Extra clip for my gun.”

Ray groaned, “Damn, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Don’t worry, Ray,” Brad said. “I don’t think we’ll be needing guns for this.”

“Dude,” Ray said, “we’re up against three highly-trained ex-Marines, one of which is a sniper.”

“It’ll be fine,” Brad said. “Fick doesn’t want us dead.”

“If you say so,” Ray said softly.

Brad glanced at his friend out of the corner of his eye, “Walt doesn’t want us dead either.”

Ray laughed without mirth. “He’s got a funny way of showing it. I swear the last twenty-four hours have shaved a few years off my life.”

“Are you getting old, Joshua?”

“Hell no,” Ray said. “And don’t call me that, Bradley. Next right is the airport.”

In ten minutes they were crossing the tarmac and climbing the stairs to the jet.

Two hours later they were touching down at Niagara Falls International Airport.

“Now what?” Ray shouted over the roar of the engines. An agent was waiting for them with a standard-issue black SUV. Brad nodded to the woman and took the keys. He didn’t answer until he and Ray were several miles from the airport.

“We’re in Niagara, Ray,” he said. “Where else would we go but—”

“Niagara Falls,” Ray finished. “That’s ballsy, don’t you think? Hiding in plain sight?”

“These guys started a prison riot, killed an ex-Marine, and broke out of a max security prison. I think being ballsy is par for the course for them.”

Silence settled between them until they pulled into the parking lot at Niagara Falls.

“You want me to call backup yet?” Ray asked.

“No,” Brad said, eyes fixed on a familiar figure standing at the railing. “Not yet. Give me fifteen minutes.”

“Fine,” Ray said. “I’ll give _us_ fifteen minutes, ‘cause you’re sure as shit not going alone.”

“Thanks, Ray,” Brad said. For once (not that he would ever admit it) there was no sarcasm in his voice. Then they were out the door and moving toward the Rainbow International Bridge at a brisk pace. They paid the fee to walk across and stepped out over rushing water and onto no-man’s land.

They zeroed in on the same man and flanked him on either side.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Brad said. Rodolfo Reyes turned to look at him. He had a beatific smile on his face, his short hair beaded with droplets of mist. The chill wind coming off the water pinked his cheeks, but he still looked perfectly refreshed, like he had just stepped off a photo shoot instead of busted out of prison.

“All part of the plan, my brother,” Reyes said. “The world works in mysterious ways.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Brad said. “Now tell us where they are.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re here,” Reyes said, serene steel in his eyes. “Violence begets violence, brother.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“We just want to talk,” Brad cut Ray off. Reyes considered him for several long moments. The roar of the water thundered in Brad’s ears. Finally, Reyes nodded, “I believe you. You’ll find them at the end of the bridge.”

“Across the border?” Ray groaned. “Of course.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Reyes slipped out from between them and began to walk away. Brad and Ray traded glances and started after him, walking briskly until Reyes was sandwiched between them. Ray grabbed his arm, “Hold on, homes. Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to see my partner,” Reyes said. It took Brad a moment to think back to Reyes’ arrest and remember the ominous comment about his partner who hadn’t made it out of the sandbox and who was therefore likely _dead_. Ray, following the same line of thought, flashed startled eyes at Brad, and they immediately steered Reyes away from the railing. Reyes caught on to their urgency and looked confused before he threw his head back and laughed. “Peace, brothers. You’ve got the wrong idea, though I appreciate your concern.”

He shrugged off their hands, and the agents reluctantly let him go. Reyes smiled at them, something soft in his eyes. “Why should I seek to leave this earth while my partner is still on it?”

“Wait,” Ray said. “Your partner is _alive?_ But you said he was dead!”

“I may have mislead you,” Reyes said. He held up his hands in a soothing manner when the agents bristled. “Unintentionally, my brothers, I assure you. My partner truly didn’t make it out of the sandbox; at least, not all of him.”

Reyes broke away from them and walked over to a man leaning against the railing about ten yards away. The man was tall enough to be eye-level with Brad. He had sandy brown hair and sunglasses on even though it was completely overcast. When Reyes came up to him and spoke softly to him, the man straightened up and grabbed a white walking stick that had been previously tucked out of sight from the agents.

“Oh,” Ray said softly as Reyes guided the man over to them. When they were face to face, the agents could see that the sunglasses couldn’t quite cover the scarring that started near the man’s left ear and stretched across his right cheekbone.

“Gentlemen,” Reyes said, “allow me to introduce Pappy, the best damn sniper in the Recon Marine Corp.”

“Only ‘cause you were my spotter,” Pappy said with a small smile. He had Southern accent and a moustache that twitched when his lips moved. He held out his hand. “Rudy said he was bringing some friends along. Pleased to meet you.”

_Friends, huh?_ Brad thought. He threw Reyes a look. Reyes simply beamed at him. The agent signed and shook Pappy’s hand, “I’m Brad. This is Ray.”

Ray shook Pappy’s hand. There was a moment of silence. The Falls kept roaring.

“Did I ever tell you how Pappy lost his sight?” Reyes said abruptly. Pappy frowned, “Rudy . . .”

Reyes plowed on, eyes suddenly sharp, “While we were serving our last tour, one of our superiors called in an airstrike. It was too close to our position, and Nate tried to get him to see reason, tried to make him understand he was going to get us all killed. But Griego shut him down, threatened to have him arrested for insubordination. The airstrike hit, and shrapnel got Pappy. Pappy lost his sight, all because our superiors wouldn’t listen.”

“Rudy,” Pappy said, reaching out to squeeze Reyes’ shoulder. “That’s in the past.”

Reyes took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You’re right, brother. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Pappy said. “Maybe we should get going, leave these boys to their business. Didn’t you tell me earlier they have a meeting to get to?”

Reyes nodded. He looked at the agents, “Like I said, they’re at the end of the bridge. Give me a five-minute head start to let them know you’re coming.”

Brad had already broken dozens of Bureau rules by letting things get this far. He couldn’t see the harm in breaking one more. “Sure. It was nice meeting you, Pappy.”

“You as well,” Pappy smiled. “Take care of yourselves, boys.”

“You too, homes,” Ray said. The agents watched as Reyes and his partner disappeared into the mist at the far end of the bridge.

“Are we really doing this, Brad?” Ray asked.

“I told Reyes I’m only going to talk to them,” Brad said. “And that’s what I’m going to do. Besides, do you really want to lie to a sniper, Ray?”

“Hell no,” Ray said. Brad could still hear a hint of nervousness in his voice, and reached down to check his holster, “That being said, there’s no sense in being unprepared.”

“Damn straight,” Ray grinned. They watched Horseshoe Falls, companionable silence between them until Ray said, “I think that’s been about five minutes, how about you?”

“Yep,” Brad said. “Let’s move.”

They made their way across the bridge at a sedate pace so as not to draw attention from passing bystanders. Once they stepped onto Canadian soil, they surveyed the area. There was no sign of Reyes or Pappy, but further down the street was a little café with an outdoor patio. The miserable weather meant the patio should have been abandoned, but two men were sitting at a table with black stocking caps pulled over their heads. They were positioned carefully so one could always watch the other’s blind spot.

Brad and Ray recognized them from their silhouettes. They glanced at each other before making their way down the street.

Walt was facing them. His cheeks were pink from the cold. There was a wide smile on his boyish, handsome face. He glanced up as they approached, and the smile vanished. Walt leaned forward, said something to his companion, then stood and walked away.

Ray glanced at Brad.

“Go,” Brad said.

Ray hesitated long enough to say, “Be careful, homes,” before he took off to follow Walt. Brad forced himself to keep moving. His breath billowed out into the chill, humid air. The roar from the Falls echoed in his ears.

Brad stepped onto the patio. He circled the table. Nathaniel Fick smiled up at him, his expression warm with genuine happiness. “Hello, Brad.”

“Fick,” Brad said, his face carefully blank. “Would you rather do this here or somewhere more private?”

Fick’s eyes fucking _twinkled_ at him, “Let’s take a walk.”

Fick stood and started moving in the opposite direction that Walt had gone. Brad frowned. It was likely a ploy to further separate him from Ray, but Brad knew Fick would not be swayed. Brad allowed himself the luxury of a small sigh before he started after the convicted serial killer.

They walked for a while without speaking, accompanied only by the faint _thud_ of their footsteps echoing off the walls of the buildings lining either side of the street. Brad was just about to call bullshit when Fick veered off into an alley. Brad’s muscles tensed, but he did not hesitate to follow. Fick kept moving until they were deep enough in the alley that even the roar of the Falls faded away. He leaned back against the brick, his eyes following Brad as the FBI agent came to a stop in front of him, scrutinizing him with cold blue eyes.

“Is this the part where you tell me I’m under arrest?” Fick asked.

“Yes,” Brad said. Neither of them moved. After what felt like an eternity, Fick raised his arm. Brad considered reaching for his gun, but Fick only slipped the stocking hat off his head and scrubbed a hand through his short reddish hair. He tilted his head back, green eyes fixed on Brad. He smiled, small and charming, just like he had in the bar years ago. Brad felt something twinge in his chest and ruthlessly kept his expression Iceman calm.

“I never planned for you, Brad,” Fick said softly, like a confession. “I would have kept killing until I put all the ghosts to rest and then I would have quietly disappeared. But then Griego got himself arrested and I knew I had to do the same to get close enough to kill him myself.”

“You used me.” Brad’s tone was flat.

“Yes,” Fick said. “But only to get myself arrested by an official I knew I could trust.”

He straightened up against the brick wall of the alley and crossed his arms over his chest. He had the decency (or was it the audacity?) to look Brad in the eye when he said, “I’m not going to ask you to forgive me, and I’m not going to apologize. But I want you to know that I cherish the time we spent together.”

“Bullshit,” Brad snapped. “How can you ‘cherish’ something that was built on lies?”

Fick gave him a wry smile, “Maybe because I love you.”

Brad glared and took a step forward, “Those words ain’t cheap.”

“I know,” Fick said, green eyes serious, and fuck they were close enough to share body heat. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll say them again. I love—”

Brad cut him off by crushing their mouths together. Fick (no, _Nate_ ) made a sound like relief and it lit Brad up like a fucking live wire. He pressed Nate back into the brick and felt Nate reach up to frantically twine his fingers in his short blond hair and pull him closer, deeper. Brad groaned, sought out Nate’s heat, focused on breathing him in and losing himself in the way Nate tilted his chin to get a better angle.

It started frantic and gradually softened, their motions slowing until it was just their lips sliding together, their breaths mixing in tandem as they relearned each other, Brad doing his best to map out Nate’s mouth with his tongue all over again. The sight and scent and sound of Nate all around him reminded him of hot nights in California, but the past few years gave it all a new edge of clarity. Brad had a new appreciation for the whipcord strength he could feel pressed against him from chest to hips, knew now what the hands cupping his jaw were capable of, and he nipped at Nate’s fucking beautiful mouth hard enough to draw blood before pulling away.

They caught their breath, chests heaving against each other. Brad’s suit was irredeemably wrinkled, but he did not give a fuck because Nate’s eyes were blown wide and he was watching Brad with something soft and warm and hungry in his gaze.

Nate pulled him into another kiss, his hands sliding down to fist in the lapels of his suit jacket when Brad eventually pulled away.

“You know where to find me,” Nate said, like he had no doubt that Brad would follow him one day. Brad thought of coordinates hidden in a picture frame and a quiet morning tangled in the sheets a week before everything came crashing down, listening to the distant rush-roar of the Californian waves. He remembered Nate murmuring in his ear about a cabin in the woods of rural Canada, a place he bought as soon as he got out of the Corps, remembered him whispering, “Maybe you’d like to visit someday.”

Brad’s mouth twitched with a hint of humor as he met Nate’s brilliant green gaze, “I found you twice already.”

Nate smiled, “You know what they say about the third time.”

Brad kissed him again, sliding his tongue past full lips and sharp, white teeth. Nate chased him back into his own mouth. Brad let it go on until the timer in his head flashed a warning.

He pulled away and slid his hands down the muscle in Nate’s arms before settling on his hips. Nate leaned back against the brick, placed his hands over Brad’s. His green eyes were soft. Brad cleared his throat, but his voice still came out husky when he said, “You have twenty minutes to disappear before the rest of my associates get here.”

Nate’s lips quirked. He squeezed Brad’s hands, pressing them into his flesh like a brand, before releasing him. Brad walked away, feeling keen eyes on his back.

He found Ray leaning against the railing, staring into the distance, unusually solemn. His mouth was kiss-red and swollen, so Brad wasn’t too concerned about how his reunion with Walt went, but he needed to make sure they were on the same page.

“Ray,” he started, but his partner cut him off.

“You know, Brad,” Ray kicked at a rock, “it’s a shame we couldn’t catch the bad guys this time.”

Brad smiled, turned back toward the Falls, “It sure is. Wouldn’t you know it, they crossed the border and disappeared before we could get here. We canvased the area, interviewed a few folks, but there was just no trace of them.”

He counted to ten before Ray’s face returned to its usual state of manic glee, “So. Is there something you want to tell your old pal Ray-Ray? Did everything go alright with the missus?”

“Shut up, Person.”

Ray laughed obnoxiously, and for the first time in three years Brad felt the tension drain from his shoulders.

They returned to their SUV. Ray climbed into the driver’s seat and set about getting them a flight back.

Brad paused and glanced back at the Falls. He thought of green eyes and coordinates that went up in smoke. He thought of wilderness he could lose himself in.

He thought of a cabin in the woods, and the man that was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for accompanying me on this journey. I'm glad I finally got it out of my head and on paper.
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
